But just then Mrs. Perrier came out on the porch carrying a tray, and nothing would do but that Mr. Hamilton and Ruth must taste her home-made grape-juice, and the little cakes made from a recipe she had brought from Switzerland.  They were almost as thin as paper, and so deliciously crisp and toothsome-looking that Ruth couldn’t resist them.

“Oh, Uncle Henry,” she cried impulsively, “I am so hungry:  and you have a hungry look, too, hasn’t he, Marie?  Never mind if we don’t get home quite so soon; I can rest while I’m eating.”

“Just as you say, my dear,” answered Mr. Hamilton with proper meekness.  He was having an unusual and interesting experience himself, and didn’t in the least mind staying.

The little lunch was delicious, and Ruth sighed as she finished the last cake she felt she could possibly eat.  Mr. Hamilton stooped to pick up his whip before saying good-bye, and as he did so dislodged a book which was tucked into the steamer chair.  It fell to the floor, and a paper fluttered out of it and floated almost to Ruth’s feet.  She picked it up to return it, but her eye was caught by a pencil sketch which stood out boldly.

“Why, Marie,” she cried in astonishment, “did you draw this?  It’s that little piece of the shore of the lake that I’ve been looking at while I’ve sat here.  Do let me show it to Uncle Henry.”

“Eet ees nothing,” faltered Marie, full of shy embarrassment.  “I cannot make eet look as I see eet.”

Mr. Hamilton studied the little sketch with kindly, critical eyes.  Then he apparently forgot that there was need to hurry, for to Ruth’s surprise he sat down again by Marie’s chair, saying earnestly:  “Have you more sketches in that book I knocked down, child?  Let me see them if you have.”

His manner was so serious, so compelling, that Marie gave him the book without a word.  There were sketches in pencil and sketches in water-color.  Those in the first part of the book were tiny drawings of the interior of Mrs. Perrier’s house, with now and again that smiling woman herself in a characteristic pose.  Once in a while there was a sketch in color of mountains, lake and sky done evidently from memory.  All crude and faulty, but showing so much strength, so much individuality and color-sense, that Mr. Hamilton turned the leaves of the little book again and again, and finally laid it down reluctantly, saying: 

“If I only had time, Marie, I should like to talk them all over with you.  There is so much promise in them that you must keep on trying; you must study as soon as you are strong enough.”

“I am so glad that you think I am not wasting my time when I do such things,” she answered wistfully.  “They will never look as I want them to look, but I cannot help trying.  I shall hope to study some day.”

Marie walked to where the horses were tied to show Ruth how much she had improved, and as they turned to wave a last good-bye to her Mr. Hamilton said impressively, “Ruth, do you know we’ve discovered a genius there.  I firmly believe that girl will make a name for herself some day.  We must help her.”